In early December, my girlfriend Thereza and I got away for a girls’ weekend in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. The weekend was a typical girly affair, complete with wine, shopping, and giggles. The thing that stood out, though, were our egg-related dining experiences. Or should I say, eggs-periences. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.)

Our first morning there, we headed out to the Twin Towers, and chose an elegant café with a European feel. The café’s menu proudly stated, “Two eggs any way you like.” I ordered eggs Benedict. Thereza requested scrambled with cheese and onions. Ironically, the more complicated eggs Benedict posed no issue. Thereza’s supposedly simple eggs did. Our waiter politely apologized and told her that it would not be possible to add cheese or onions. “It is against our S.O.P., ma’am.”

For those of you who were unaware that typical military jargon is apparently now used in the restaurant industry, S.O.P. means Standard Operating Procedure. Thereza gave me a confused look, as she too, didn’t get the memo about this lexical development. Now caught up, she asked to speak to the supervisor, who also informed us that adding anything to the scrambles was against “S.O.P.” Thereza argued, “But your menu says eggs any way I want. And what I want are eggs scrambled with cheese and onions.” A futile plea, as it turned out. So she escalated once again, asking to speak to the chef. The supervisor disappeared briefly, and returned looking all pleased with himself. “Ma’am, the chef said he can put cheese in the eggs, but he absolutely cannot add onions.” Thereza and I looked at each other in frustration, silently communicating to each other: Maybe we should just leave. “Bu-ut,” chirped the waiter, “We can bring the onions for you on the side. How about that?” He looked at us expectantly as if he’d announced, à la Bob Barker, “How would you like to win a… Brand! New! Car!” Thereza sighed and acquiesced. And wouldn’t you know it, chopped onions arrived in a pretty little bowl on the side. Uncooked, pungent, white cooking onions.

Later on that day, happily laden with shopping bags, we meandered into another café in the Towers. It was my turn this time. But come on, I was craving Caesar salad. A big unhealthy bowl of  pale lettuce, croutons, cheese, and dressing, with a neatly diced boiled egg. The salad arrived. The egg was soft-boiled, cut roughly in two, yolk oozing onto the lettuce. Do people actually like runny eggs in their Caesar? I called the waiter over, and asked if he could take the salad back, and have the egg well done, please. The waiter took the salad away, but not before he admonished me: “Well, you should have told me you wanted the egg well done when you ordered.” Incredulous laughter was the only reaction we could muster. And yet we stayed there too, and finished our meal, once the well-done egg in Caesar had arrived.

The following morning, we chose to eat breakfast at the hotel. There was an egg-making station, and Thereza exclaimed, “Finally! Now I can have eggs the way I want!” So she put in her request for those elusive eggs. The egg chef was about to start her eggs when his spatula slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. As he was about to put it back, unwashed, into the frying pan, the supervisor appeared from nowhere, and uttered one word: “Wash.” The supervisor then turned to Thereza and assured her that the eggs would soon come to her table. Meanwhile, the chef slinked off to wash his spatula. (On a side note, we did wonder why he didn’t have extra spatulas handy. One of the many things that make you go “Hmmm”.)

Thereza’s long-anticipated scrambled eggs with cheese and onions finally arrived! And they were in the form of… fried sunny side up.

We should have eggs-pected that, eh?

(Dear reader: you are invited t0 comment with as many egg-related puns as you can think of!)